Head Over Heels

by Hannah Orenstein

  I dash off the briefest, politest text I can muster. It’s funny: for years, I cared more about him than anyone or anything—where he was, how he was doing, what he was up to. But now I don’t even care to know what his life looks like.

  Thanks! Hope everything’s going well.

  I’ve got more important things to do.

  * * *

  At nine, I meet Hallie in her suite. She invited me to sit with her as she gets ready, and when she opens the door, she looks visibly more relaxed than she did just ninety minutes earlier.

  “I sent my parents out for breakfast,” she explains, welcoming me inside. “They get even more nervous than I do on days like this. Stressful vibes.”

  “Mine were like that, too,” I say. “Actually, they still are.”

  “Maybe they could all learn to meditate,” she suggests. “Sit with me while I do my hair and makeup?”

  We head into the bathroom, where I flip down the toilet seat and sit, and she plugs in a hair straightener. When it’s hot, she irons each section of hair until it’s perfectly smooth, then brushes it all into a high, tight ponytail and blasts the crown of her head with extra-strength hair spray. I never wore much makeup when I was her age—not even to competitions—but this generation of gymnasts grew up watching beauty tutorials on YouTube and spending their allowances on Urban Decay Naked palettes and Kylie Jenner lip kits. They’re so much savvier and sophisticated than I ever was; during competitions, they look like Hollywood starlets on the red carpet.

  “I’m going to skip foundation because it’ll just sweat off,” she explains, digging through her makeup bag.

  “Not that you need it anyway,” I point out.

  She shrugs. “But I’ll do concealer, highlighter, and a little blush and bronzer.”

  She expertly applies those, then moves on to eye shadow primer, three different shades of sparkly eye shadow, black eyeliner, and several swipes of mascara. I feel like I could learn a thing or two from her.

  “Good?” she asks, seeking approval.

  “Let’s just say that if you ever get bored of gymnastics, you could have a backup career as a makeup artist,” I say.

  “So, I have two leotard options for today, and I wanted to get your opinion,” she says.

  She opens the closet door and pulls out two hangers.

  “I didn’t hang them—that’s nuts—but my mom spent, like, a half hour steaming them so they wouldn’t wrinkle,” she explains. “Like I said, she’s stressed.”

  Hallie holds up one leotard in front of her, then the other. The first is bright purple, with an ombré effect on the bodice, mesh cutouts on the sleeves, and a spray of rhinestones over the chest. It’s like the sporty version of a beauty pageant gown—what Miss America might wear for her talent portion. The second one is much simpler: entirely red and flecked with silver shimmer.

  “You’d look great in both,” I say.

  “But if you had to pick one,” she implores.

  It truly doesn’t matter what she wears; the most important thing is that she feels confident. I don’t want to accidentally pick the one she’s leaning against and trigger her to second-guess her instincts.

  “I really like both,” I insist.

  She purses her lips. “You know why I like the red one?” she says shyly.

  “It’s more comfortable?” I guess.

  “This doesn’t look familiar?” she asks.

  I try to remember if she’s worn it before, but I can’t recall.

  “You wore one just like this,” she says, blushing a little. “I saw you on TV when I was little, and I was so starstruck.”

  Suddenly, I know exactly what she’s talking about.

  “Olympic Trials, 2012,” I say.

  She nods. “I wanted to be just like you. I still do.”

  “That was my very last competition, you know,” I say carefully.

  “But this won’t be mine, because you’ve coached me so well,” she says. “I wouldn’t even be here at Trials without you.”

  A hard lump forms in the back of my throat. For so many years now, I’ve felt like a failure: I failed to make the Olympics; I literally failed out of college; I floundered through a failing relationship. I squandered my fresh start in California, and I neglected to take care of myself the way I deserved. But none of that matters to Hallie. In her eyes, it seems as if I’m an inspiration. I’m a role model. And most important, I’m a coach who has helped to give her a fair shot at achieving her lifelong dream.

  “Oh, Hallie,” I say, wrapping her in a hug. “Being your coach is truly the best thing I’ve ever done. I mean it. I don’t know what I would’ve done without this job.”

  “Thank you for everything,” she says, squeezing me back.

  I blink hard twice and shake my head to keep the tears at bay. Now is not the time. Hallie puts the purple leotard back in the closet, then takes the red one into the bathroom to change. When she opens the door again a minute later, she twirls in a circle to show off the look.

  Now that she’s pointed out the connection, it’s impossible to ignore. Clad in red, she looks an awful lot like I did eight years ago. Except now, Hallie looks confident. Self-assured. Happy. I desperately hope she has better luck today than I did.

  • CHAPTER 32 •

  The competition arena looks the same. It always does. No matter where you are in the country or the world, regardless of who’s winning or what the year is. The familiar, standard-issue apparatus and mats and chalk bowls are arranged on a basketball floor under fluorescent lighting, surrounded by bleachers, with frenzied energy pulsing through the air. Ryan and I flank Hallie as we arrive, looking like a real team in our matching Summit tracksuits. For the first time in months, I truly feel like the three of us are in sync again. I’m glad Ryan and I got the chance to talk this morning.

  Hallie takes in the view of the arena with a curious expression.

  “This is it,” she says, sounding stunned.

  “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” I remind her.

  “That’s kind of chill,” she says.

  “Good,” Ryan says. “I like that attitude. Go warm up.”

  She nods, slips out of her tracksuit, and jogs to the floor to run a few laps. Ryan slides closer to me on the bench, bridging the empty space Hallie left behind.

  “You know, no matter what happens today, whether she makes it or not, I’m proud of us,” he says. “I think we did a killer job.”

  “We made a pretty good team,” I say.

  “We did, didn’t we?” He lets out a short laugh. “It’s crazy to think of how much has happened this year. You moving back to Greenwood, joining me at Summit, the Kaminsky scandal, the Powerhouse offer, your foundation…”

  He trails off. He doesn’t need to say the rest. I know what he’s thinking: we got together, broke up… and yet, we’re still here. So is Dimitri, across the arena. He won’t even look at me.

  “Hey, the schedule’s up,” I say, nudging him, glad to have a safe talking point emerge.

  It’s a crowded roster: fifteen gymnasts competing for just four real spots on the Olympic team. Technically speaking, two other gymnasts are named as alternates, just in case anyone gets seriously injured during the Olympic Games—they can swap in and compete as backups. But obviously, nobody aspires to be an alternate. That means that after barely missing the chance of a lifetime, probably by a fraction of a point, you have to sit on the sidelines and cheer for your teammates to achieve your dream. It sounds like torture. As terrible as my experience was, at least I could choose not to watch the competition from the comfort of my own home.

  Hallie is up against several gymnasts I know—Emma Perry, Delia Cruz, Maggie Farber, Kiki McCloud, Skylar Hayashi, and Brit Almeda—and also several that I don’t: Olivia Walsh, Madison Salazar, Riley Robinson, Jocelyn Snyder, Ayanna Clayton, Taylor O’Connor, Charlotte Chan, Lucy Shapiro. It’s dizzying and heartbreaking to consider that the majority of these girls will have their careers end t
oday. The next few hours will change all of their lives.

  Once again, Hallie has been assigned to start on bars, which means she’ll cycle through vault, beam, and then floor. Apparently having finished her cardio warm-up, she trots back to where Ryan and I are sitting to stretch. She rolls her wrists, bends over her feet, and occasionally waves at cameras passing by.

  Before the first rotation starts, Ryan squats down next to her and waves me over to join.

  “Look, I’m not going to make a big speech to psych you up, because I know you’ve got this,” he says simply. “All I want you to do is go out there and perform just as beautifully as you’ve been doing every day. Don’t worry about anything beyond the actual work. Because that’s all you can control.”

  She nods heavily, then hugs each of us.

  “Got it. Thank you for everything. Let’s do this,” she declares.

  I’m secretly glad that she’s up first on bars, because that will get her started on the right foot. She puts on her grips and warms up for the allotted few minutes, and then waits for her turn. When the announcer booms her name over the loudspeaker, she waves to a girl in the stands holding a poster with her name on it as she strides toward the bars. This is her moment to shine, and she knows it.

  “Let’s go, Hallie, let’s go!” I cheer.

  She centers herself in front of the low bar, lifts her chin, and with just a hint of a smug smirk, jumps forward into her mount. Across the arena, another gymnast’s floor music begins to play, but it’s clear that Hallie has tuned out everything except the bar under her hands. Her body rockets cleanly to the high bar, where she swings up into a handstand, pirouettes, and flings herself into the series she’s been drilling all year with Ryan: a Tkatchev into a Pak Salto. It’s gorgeous. She finishes strong with two giants and her breathtaking dismount, a double-twisting double back tuck. Hallie sticks the landing solidly with her fingers splayed out in an elegant flourish. The audience cheers as she straightens up into a proud salute for the judges, then waves to the crowd. That was a goddamn perfect routine.

  Ryan, who was spotting her release moves, high-fives her with both hands. They look triumphant as they make their way back to where I’m sitting.

  “That was epic!” I say.

  “Let’s see what the judges have to say,” she says modestly.

  The judges barely need to deliberate. They award her routine with a well-deserved 15.150.

  Hallie squeals, smooshing a hand over her mouth to muffle her excitement.

  “See? Nothing to worry about. You’re doing an amazing job,” Ryan tells her.

  By the end of the first rotation, she reigns in second place. The only person who scored even a sliver higher than her for the first round was Dimitri’s gymnast Emma, with a 15.250 on beam. That doesn’t faze me. Emma is freakishly, supernaturally, horrifyingly talented. Hallie’s second-place showing is still fantastic. With a strong start like that, she could be a real contender for one of the four Olympic-bound spots.

  Thanks to her excellent bars routine, Hallie’s sure-footed confidence carries over to vault. The event goes by in such a flash, I don’t even have time to get nervous. She sticks clean landings on both her first run, an Amanar, and her second, a Mustafina. After her final salute, she glides back to the bench serenely. The judges reveal her score as she settles down: 14.975.

  Vault is the shortest event, which means there’s a bit of wait before the second rotation ends and we can see where Hallie will fall in the rankings. As she sucks down the contents of her water bottle, I watch the competition. Delia polishes off a glorious floor routine. Ayanna completes an impressive series of release moves on bars. On beam, Charlotte sways off balance when trying to land a front aerial and loses her footing. The crowd lets out a somber “Ooooh” when she falls to the ground. I cringe; I feel so terrible for her. She climbs back up on beam and finishes her routine with a disappointed grimace.

  When the second rotation ends, Hallie has dropped into fourth place. That’s still a very good spot to be in—if the competition were over right this second, she’d make the Olympic team—but it also means there’s no more room for error or bad luck. If she doesn’t perform the hell out of her next two routines, or if anyone else happens to have a startlingly successful showing, it’s game over.

  I’ve always known, of course, that making the Olympic team is a long shot. I knew there were no guarantees of Hallie’s success when I signed on to coach her. But somehow, I’ve never thought through exactly what to say or do to console her if it turns out that she doesn’t make the team, despite our best efforts. There’s no good way to comfort a person whose sole dream has just slipped away. I hope it doesn’t come to that.

  Hallie heads off to warm up for beam.

  “You okay, Avery?” Ryan asks, once she’s gone.

  “Ha. Hanging in there,” I say.

  “You look stressed,” he says.

  He knows me well enough to see through the calm act I’m putting on for Hallie.

  “I didn’t realize this would bother me until I got here, but being at Trials again? It’s just kind of a lot,” I confess.

  “Because of what happened to you?” he asks.

  “I know I’m fine, and it’s not that I expect Hallie to have a freak accident the way I did, but today’s major, even if we’re pretending it’s not. No matter what happens today, a few people’s lives change for the better, and everyone else’s lives will really suck,” I explain. “I know that sounds really stupid and obvious, but I just… I feel for these girls.”

  “It’s high stakes,” he says, nodding.

  He reaches for my hand and runs his thumb soothingly across my palm. The gesture is comforting.

  “I hope Hallie makes it,” I say glumly.

  He heaves a giant sigh. “Me, too.”

  I barely breathe when it’s Hallie’s turn on beam. The problem with this apparatus is that you can’t get cocky: it doesn’t matter how talented you are or how hard you’ve worked to prepare—you can still fall, and then you’re screwed. “Come on, come on, come on,” I whisper, watching her execute the back handspring, whip back, back layout step-out combo we’ve drilled so many times. It’s solid, but I still can’t relax. Every muscle in my body tightens as she winds up to perform the wolf turn. I’m relieved when she stays on the beam without a wobble. There’s a brief glint of surprise on her face, too. Her dismount goes smoothly, too, and it’s only when she salutes the judges that I can finally exhale. The routine was good, but not great: I can imagine one tiny deduction for not seamlessly connecting two jumps, and another one for a leg that could’ve been a little bit straighter. But overall, it was a fine showing.

  She barrels back to the bench, where I wrap her in a hug and stroke her hair.

  “You’re amazing,” I say. “You’re doing a really beautiful job.”

  She shudders. “At least beam is over.”

  The judges give her a 13.500, and by the time the rotation ends, that lands her in sixth place—barely in Olympic contention, but only as an alternate. She’s fallen behind Emma, Kiki, Delia, Taylor, and Ayanna. From what I can tell, the problem wasn’t that her beam routine was terrible, but rather that everyone else had an unusually great rotation. I wish I could calculate what score she’ll need in order to guarantee a full spot on the Olympic team, but I don’t know how to even begin figuring that out. My stomach cramps with nerves.

  Hallie presses her lips together like she’s trying not to wince or groan. I kneel down in front of her, gripping both of her hands in mine. I have to go off script.

  “Look, I know that we’ve been saying all day that you should just pretend like this is a normal day, and that you should just chill out and not sweat the competition, but that isn’t going to work for floor,” I tell her bluntly.

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “This is the most important performance you’ve ever had,” I tell her honestly. “You need to pour every ounce of energy, every ounce of passion int
o this routine. Go out there and enjoy every single second of it, because this is what you’ve been training for your entire life.”

  The hairs on my arms stand up on end. Hallie locks her eyes with mine and nods seriously.

  “This is it,” she says.

  “This is it,” I repeat. “No matter what the outcome is, I’ll always be so proud of you. But I want you to feel proud of yourself, too, and that means giving it your all.”

  “I can do that,” she says.

  She gives me a hug and heads to floor to warm up.

  “That was a solid pep talk,” Ryan says.

  I groan. “I just hope it was enough.”

  I’m almost too antsy to watch Hallie practice her tumbling passes, but I know I have to pay attention in case there’s any last-minute practical advice I should offer her. I wish we could just fast-forward through the fourth rotation.

  Finally, enough time creaks by and it’s Hallie’s turn to compete on floor. Ryan and I stand fifteen feet to the left of the judges’ table, which is just about as close as we can get without causing a distraction. Adrenaline rushes through me as her name is announced over the loudspeaker one more time.

  Hallie composes herself at the edge of the floor. She smiles warmly at the judges as she salutes, then gracefully walks to her starting spot. She settles into position and waits for her music to begin. For a moment, everything is still and quiet—or as quiet as a bustling arena like this can be. She’s a vision in sparkling red. As the jazzy opening notes play, she blossoms into a swirl of motion. The flick of her wrist is precise and delicate; the swing of her hips is flashy and flirty. She’s always been a gymnast, but here, after months of hard work, she’s developed the grace of a dancer, too.